


crumb coat

by bossymarmalade (maggie), maggie



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21766909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/bossymarmalade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/maggie
Summary: Sometimes a sweet tooth just won't be denied.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 18
Kudos: 160
Collections: Sholomons Prompt Fest 2019





	crumb coat

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [queuebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebird/pseuds/queuebird) in the [Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019) collection. 



> > **Prompt:** tommy comes into alfie's bakery to buy a 'just divorced!' cake
>> 
>> notes: obv that image is not a divorce cake lol but y’know.

"Condolences or congratulations?"

"Ay?" Tommy looks up from inspecting the cake that he's about to pay what he considers an exorbitant fucking fee for, and finds a man peering at him like he's come in to steal as many petite honey-and-lavender scones he can cram into his coat pockets. 

The man -- the baker, Tommy rephrases in his head -- wipes his floury hands on his apron and is about to repeat himself when Tommy cuts him off at the pass, because he understood the question, he'd just been jolted out of some rather deep thoughts. "Both," he says, then, "neither."

The baker harrumphs and Tommy asks, pointing with two fingers, "--don't the rings get in the way? Of your baking."

"I make cakes, mate," the baker says. "Not much call for me to get my fingers stuck in when it comes to genoise and devil's food."

"Rhum baba," Tommy challenges, lifting his chin, and is rewarded with the baker's round macaron mouth splitting open in an affronted sneer, rearing back himself at the very idea.

"Get the fuck out of here with that retro shite," the baker says, turning as if he's about to buttle off back into the kitchen. He doesn't, of course, not with the almighty customer still stood out here waiting to pay (an exorbitant fee) for the divorce cake that's been ordered, and instead opens the till. "Listen," the baker says, as if he can't help himself, leaning against the cash register so he can fix round blue-grey eyes on Tommy with an urgent stare, "babas au rhum do, I will admit, require some skill, otherwise you end up with a soggy, sopping mess, I'll give you that. But they're done, speaking from an industry standpoint, yeah? I could churn out beautiful babas, light as a feather and scented with rum that would make you cry for the open seas, and there's not a bugger who'll buy them because they remind everyone of Sunday tea round your meanest auntie's, the one who's always trying to make out she's more posh than she actually is."

"Not so much retro you hate as dysfunctional family memories, then," Tommy surmises, and follows it with a quick, flat smile as he gestures at his cake. "This particular dysfunctional celebration is mine, and I'm going to eat it myself -- or as much of it as a bottle of Bombay Sapphire can wash down -- and then bin the rest and say good riddance. And the bellyache plus hangover I'll have in the morning are the condolences part of the equation."

The baker looks at him for a long moment, long enough for Tommy to start shifting from foot to foot in mounting irritation. "Well?" he finally says, impatiently. He didn't spill all that personal information just to be stared at. He's surprised, though, to find just how  _ much _ he wants a reaction.

A hand, extended, all of its rings gleaming at the movement. "Alfie Solomons," the baker with the macaron mouth says. "And if you dare to drink gin with a hazelnut dacquoise and raspberry cream filling, I'll come home with you and fucking defenestrate you. Purely out of professional pride, morals, and ethics, you understand."

"Are you asking to come home with me?" Tommy asks, frowning through his smile as he reaches for Alfie's hand. "Is that some extreme form of a cake-cutting service that you offer?"

The slap of Alfie's warm, still faintly floury hand against Tommy's chilled one offers something else: a shiver of instinctive pleasure, of a sort that Tommy hasn't had since … well, since before he'd met Grace. He'd been faithful, all the time they'd been married, but he couldn't help looking, he hadn't thought that would be an issue. But it had been. "At least with other women I stand a fighting chance, Thomas," she'd said, through angry tears. "At least with other women I know I can win. But when you can't take your eyes off our waiter's cock every time he comes back to the table, what chance do I have?"

"I'm sure you could have a chance with him if you really tried, Grace," he'd shot back. "And if it's  _ my _ interest in cock you're worried about, it's easily remedied, you've got the means--"

The discussion had ended there, with the look of abject disgust that had crossed Grace's face at Tommy's suggestion of a strap-on. Sex and the unmet realities thereof hadn't been the sole reason for divorce, but it had been a major one.

Tommy realizes he's still holding on to Alfie the baker's hand, but surprisingly, the man doesn't seem to mind it. "Tell you what," Alfie says, sliding his hand so his thumb slips along the entire length of Tommy's forefinger as he moves out of the handshake, "come in back with me and I'll find you something that'll go better with that gin you're planning. I couldn't bear sending my poor dacquoise out in the cold with a bloke who doesn't understand liquor and cake pairings."

"All right, Mary Berry," Tommy says agreeably, and tells himself it's because he's a cheapskate and can possibly manage to get a free cake out of this arrangement. Alfie picks up the divorce cake to be borne away into the back with them, and Tommy proclaims, "Lead on, let's take a crack at finding me the proper flavour profile. Something in a tonic water, maybe." He tells himself that this is simply the stellar customer service that Bonny Street Bakeshop is known for, and that Alfie the baker's thumb-stroke and subsequent pleased, throaty humph are artistic idiosyncracies.

It's harder to tell himself that when the swinging door between shopfront and kitchen shuts, and Alfie the baker tosses the cake onto a nearby table and leans into Tommy, backing him up, and puts his hands against the wall on either side of Tommy to cage him there. 

"I was planning on paying for the honey-and-lavender petite scones, honest," Tommy says, and has the immense pleasure of seeing utter confusion cross Alfie's face before the man leans in and kisses him. 

Any smug amusement Tommy's feeling drains down his body and out his toes at that, because Alfie the baker kisses like it's his job; like Alfie's pressing sugar into soft butter, the swipe of his tongue melting Tommy's mouth open in response and he gives a moan of encouragement that only means Alfie curls one of those hands into a fist against the wall and the other hand grips the back of Tommy's neck. Making a loose fist there, too, as Alfie nibbles at the slick inside of Tommy's bottom lip, fingers opening to slide up into Tommy's hair as Alfie pulls back, enough for them to catch their breath, and Tommy boldly shoves his hand between Alfie's legs--

\--only to be greeted with the obstruction of the canvas apron Alfie's wearing. Tommy swears, and Alfie snorts a laugh that turns into a happy snarl when Tommy slaps the apron aside and grabs,  _ properly _ . "Big man," Tommy says out of the corner of his mouth, before it pants open and he touches the tip of his tongue to the inside of his lower lip, where Alfie'd bitten it. "You want to fuck me with it, what you're packing here?"

"Fuckin'  _ hell _ ," Alfie groans, and Tommy's belly pinches with satisfaction to see the faintly impressed look on the other man's face. "If I find out from all the other bakers in town that you go around to patisseries offering yourself to anyone who smells of Madagascar vanilla, I'll be right disappointed, love."

Tommy gives a sympathetic croon that's only half mocking. Well, only two-thirds. "Ohhh, did you want to be special? You wanted to be the only one, Alfie Solomons?"

_That_ brings on a thinning of the eyes, and a short, huffing growl, and Tommy finds himself thumped back against the wall by one be-ringed hand spanned from collarbone to collarbone. "Tell me," Alfie says, and his cock thickens under Tommy's palm, a promise, a possibility. "I'd be disappointed, yeah, but it doesn't mean I won't fuck you."

Tommy feels his knees sag just slightly and he swallows, enjoying the feeling of Alfie's hand constricting the movement. "Only you, Mr. Solomons," Tommy says, giving back that promise and possibility. "Nobody else is special."

And then Tommy cranes forward to kiss Alfie, half-choking himself before Alfie eases up, and they crash against each other so that Tommy can rub  _ his _ stiffening prick against Alfie's through their clothes. Alfie wraps an arm around Tommy and hauls him along, letting go for brief moments to shed items of clothing as they relocate closer to a number of white plastic pails. "What's this?" Tommy asks, even though he doesn't care what the answer is as he struggles out of his jumper and tosses it to the ground, every other stitch of clothing following it until he's there jaybird naked in the middle of a bakery kitchen. 

In good company, since Alfie strips right down too, and Tommy can't help but curl a fist against his mouth and bite down on his knuckles at the sight of Alfie's thick thighs, the muscled arms and shoulders, his rosy, leaking cock. "On the table, pet," Alfie says, nodding at the sturdy plastic table behind Tommy where the rejected divorce cake is sitting, and Tommy does what he's told, his own prick curving up to kiss his navel. Alfie leans momentarily over Tommy, and when he comes back it's to swoop a thick, elegant curve of peacock-blue frosting from the damned divorce cake across Tommy's abs before leaning down to take the head of Tommy's cock into that plum mouth.

Propped on his elbows, Tommy watches through eyes hooded with desire, the blue of them glittering as Alfie's tongue circles the ridge of his cockhead, then laps at the clear bubbles of precum trailing out. "God, yeah, keep doing that," Tommy breathes, and Alfie the baker is a rat bastard, it seems, because he sucks at Tommy's cock and then pulls right off, saying, "All right, now, sweetie -- lie down, there's a good boy," and despite himself Tommy eases flat onto his back on the table. His cock, sad and bereft after such lavish attention, drizzles a thin stream onto the frosting across his belly, pearlescent trails in its peacock fluff, and Tommy's about to take matters into his own hands when Alfie's there, urging his legs up.

Two fingers slippery with oil -- of course, it's a bakery -- sink between Tommy's legs, finding his hole and circling, pressing, before dipping in. Tommy bites his lip and holds on to the sides of the table, reminding himself to breathe, to breathe through it, and he does pretty well except when Alfie's fingers scissor him open. Alfie the baker holds still, when he hears Tommy's breathing get too hitchy, and makes an inquiring, concerned noise.

"It's … been a while for me," Tommy says, and he can't quite read Alfie's expression from this angle so instead he swipes a fingertip through frosting and his own precum, bringing the combination to his mouth to press against his tongue.

Alfie's fingers twist, around and down and out, and then he's moved up between Tommy's legs, his thick cock rubbing against Tommy's balls long enough so that Tommy can feel that Alfie's oiled himself up, too. And then Alfie's saying, "--like riding a bicycle with a dildo fitted onto the seat, Tommy Shelby," and pushing in, and Tommy only has a moment to wonder about why Alfie knows his name before he's being filled, his hole stretching helplessly around the girth of Alfie's cock.

"Jaysis mary and joseph," Tommy gasps, eyes wide as his wet fingers rearrange themselves on the sides of the table. Alfie gives a grunting laugh, bumping his forehead against the underside of Tommy's chin. "Of course the sexiest man to walk into my bakery in a donkey's age would be a fucking Papist," Alfie complains, sounding breathless and excited. Tommy stretches his arms over his head to find the top edge of the table, one of his forearms pushed into the already-destroyed cake, and Alfie gives a deep groan and licks Tommy's bicep as he starts to work his cock into Tommy's arse in earnest. 

"Yeah, that's it, Alfie, give it to me," Tommy murmurs, licking his lips as he lets the back of his head roll against the table, his whole body jolting as Alfie's thrusts pick up in speed and power. 

And it hurts, christ but it hurts -- Tommy's still tight and unaccustomed to this anymore -- but the pain feels good, the right sort of pain, and pleasure starts soaking into it like sugar syrup. Alfie doesn't slow, the muscles of his arms and shoulders and back flexing with exertion; it makes Tommy's mouth water and he grits his teeth together and keens, encouraging Alfie on, managing to hook at least one knee over Alfie's hip even if his other leg has to settle for looping around Alfie's thigh. 

Alfie curves his hands over Tommy's shoulders and drags him down, hauling him onto the pistoning force of his hips and cock, and Tommy leaves off holding onto the table and brings his hands down to clutch into the black of his hair instead. "So bloody good," Alfie rumbles, his face damp and ruddy, warm-smelling sweat blooming on his torso that Tommy wants to lick off. His belly's smeared with frosting too now, from the length and closeness of each lunge, and everything smells of butter and sugar and cum and heated-up skin. 

"Better than gin, isn't this, darling?"

"Cum inside me," Tommy orders him in a needy bark, a slight whine, and Alfie lowers his head to complete the battery of thrusts into Tommy's body and comply, with a loud animalistic groan. His hands on Tommy's shoulders are digging bruises into the skin as the shocks of orgasm stagger the movements of Alfie's cock inside Tommy, and when Alfie reaches down to wrap his hand around Tommy's rigid cock, that's all it takes. Tommy gives a long, rattling groan and cums hard, kneeing against Alfie, trying instinctively to trap him inside as he brings the heels of his hands around to press against his forehead for the duration of his own climax. 

They stay like that, sprawled against the table, for a little while longer than is strictly necessary for them to catch their breath. And then Tommy says, "Did you fuck anybody on this table before you used it to decorate  _ my _ cake on?"

Alfie lifts his head, affronted. "I'll have you know," he says, "that we are fuckin' stringent about health code violations here, Tommy! I decorated your cake on an entirely different table that I'd fucked somebody on. Avoids cross-contamination that way." He harrumphs, finally pulling out, both of them wincing slightly at the lingering, well-used soreness. 

They get re-dressed in relative silence -- it doesn't take long -- and then Alfie seems to remember something. "I was supposed to replace your cake with a more suitable accompaniment to gin, wasn't I? Instead of debauching you in my place of fucking business."

"Alfie," Tommy chuckles as he buckles up his belt, finally putting two and two together on how Alfie knows his name (it was the cake order, wasn't it? Tommy's name is on the order), "I think you've gone above and beyond when it comes to 'congratulations on the divorce', ay?"

Alfie finishes stroking his beard back into place and ties his apron on again. He runs a thumb along the reddened circumference of his mouth, and Tommy rolls his eyes, leaning in to hook his fingers into the neck of Alfie's apron.

"And just so you know," he says, "I'd like to order your home cake-cutting service in the future."

"The bloody cheek of you," Alfie says, and when he kisses Tommy this time, he tastes of the smears of divorce frosting that he'd licked away.


End file.
